


you're a beautiful and violent work

by theteapirate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, if it's not porn i'm lost, tbh i don't know what the fuck this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theteapirate/pseuds/theteapirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>weird harry (+ louis) character study thing. badfic summary: louis bullies people when he likes them, and harry is secretly the incredible hulk with a healthy dash of poseidon (or: pop stars get angry about stupid things too) (or, aretha franklin is the songstress of harry styles’s heart). (non-AU, whaaaaat).</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're a beautiful and violent work

Sometimes it’s sexy when Harry’s angry: Louis prods and pokes and teases until his grumpy boy finally runs out of his miles upon miles of patience and just pushes right back, all the way against the wall until Louis’s screaming and sweaty and debauched and sorry (he’s never really sorry). Besides, it’s not like Harry’s really angry; how could he be, wearing that cocky smile with his cock pushed deep in Louis’s arse, whispering rude filthy things with those beautiful cocksucker lips of his.

Sometimes it’s sexy when Louis’s angry: he might be protecting Harry’s honor or rebelling against an invasive fan or just generally being the wild, wonderful boy that Harry loves so damn much. He gets so fond when Louis’s like this, content to just watch him run wild until he’s ready to be calmed down, a task Harry is more than willing to undertake with his mouth and hands and slow, deep voice. 

But sexy anger is something, and real anger is something else. 

\--

Louis remembers the time he saw Harry lose his temper. The Time, he thinks, singular, because there’s only been one time. 

He doesn’t know how Harry manages. He can’t always be charming, and sweet, and patient. Sometimes Louis thinks that if he were to just dig his nails in deep enough, he’d find the well where Harry keeps all his rage in those moments when their patience is tested -- when their privacy is infringed upon, when the paps snap their photos, when there are lies in the paper, when no one listens -- and the feverish blood will rise to the surface, and Harry will revealed to be just as much of an angry, feeling, flawed human as the rest of them instead of the darling little demi-god everyone assumes him to be.

But Harry never bleeds. Louis watches his face: as soon as something dark begins to stir in him, he gets up and leaves, and he doesn’t let anyone follow him. Louis’s tried countless times, but Harry’s too good. He just slips away quietly and hides until it passes. When he returns, he’s all smiles and dimples and cool, collected infallibility. Harry boxes to ease his stress, Louis knows that much. He’ll run for hours, Louis knows that too. But Louis doesn’t know what Harry does when he goes off on his own. He’s asked a million times, but all he gets is a mumbled _clearing my head_ with that little frown that Louis can’t help but find endearing. 

But there was the one time. 

It had been a terrible week. A long, terrible week. Harry was supposed to get to go home to see his family for the first time in months, but they scheduled a last-minute TV spot instead, and the boys were whisked off to America before they could protest. It was worse, somehow, this time -- the screaming and the interviews and the manhandling into cars while strangers’ fingers groped at your face and your hair and tugged at your sleeve and any inch of you they could reach. Maybe it was because they thought they were going to get to go home. Either way, it was a long grueling week and even Louis found himself unwilling to stay entertained. 

By the last day, Harry had gone to the beach alone. He didn’t tell anyone because he needed it to be just his and no one else’s. It was just a simple thing -- he brought a towel he nicked from the hotel and some big, stupid sunglasses and a lopsided snapback and a book, some silly thing he picked up at the airport because he thought it had a nice cover. Louis could imagine Harry easily -- t-shirt balled-up over his eyes to protect his face, sunscreen half-heartedly smeared over his smooth hard belly, book abandoned in the sand after twenty pages or so -- just enjoying the sun, maybe flopping around in the water for a bit, pretending he was someone free, pretending he was nobody. Sometimes Louis thought Harry liked that fantasy more than he should -- pretending he was nobody. 

But he wasn’t nobody at all. He was Harry Styles. He had a bodyguard who followed him and bandmates who cared about him and fans who would go to the end of the world for a glimpse of the sun glinting off his stupid curls. Louis thought they were doing the right thing -- Niall mentioned he saw Harry slipping off alone. He must be upset, right? Louis had nodded, ignoring the uncertainty he felt in the pit of his stomach. Besides, he already missed Harry, even if he’d only been gone a few hours. We should go find him. It was supposed to be a good idea. Harry mentioned wanting to go to the beach, so that’s where they looked. 

They weren’t quiet about it, traipsing rowdily along the sand, pushing and laughing. A fan saw them, but that was usual enough. And then another fan, and another. Soon enough, there were flashes going off by the dunes near the street where the paparazzi had caught on. 

Harry, ironically, was the last to see them. His hair was slicked close to his head, and he was smiling, all to himself. As soon as Harry saw them, the joy slid clean off his face. Louis barely recognized the expression that replaced it -- it was dark and terrible and cold. Louis called out Harry’s name, waving madly, grinning as though Harry might return it, just on principle. Instead, Harry slipped under the water as silently and quickly as if he belonged there. 

“What’s he doing?” Liam caught up to Louis and elbowed him in the ribs, lifting his chin to where Harry disappeared. “Louis?”

“I --” Louis was at a loss. The reality of it hit him like a wave. “I dunno. We should leave.”

“What?”

Harry rose from the water. He kept his head down. Louis wanted to come closer, to see the dripping spikes of Harry’s eyelashes from a breath away, to kiss his cold, wet mouth with warm dry lips and feel him smile against his cheek. But Harry wasn’t looking at him. He shook his head like a mad dog, whipping his hair about in the wind. 

Louis and Liam watched him gather his towel and his book, the dark storm of Harry’s face tilted up towards the sun. “Yeah, okay,” Liam said quietly. Harry looked like the god of the sea.

\--

A few hours later, Louis knocked carefully on Harry’s door. 

“Haz?” He called. “Styles, open up!” 

There was no answer. Louis glanced about the hallway quickly. He was wearing his “sexy arse” pajamas (Zayn coined the term) and he felt absolutely idiotic loitering in the hallway like this. 

“Harry, I might be molested standing out here looking as hot as I do, and then that will be on your conscience, and you will have to live with your sins for the rest of your life, until the guilt consumes you and you--”

“Lou, shut the fuck up,” Harry said roughly, voice low and dark. It sounded like he might have been right on the other side of the door.

Louis drew in a breath. “Please, then?” 

“No.”

“Harry, come off it, you’re acting ridiculous--”

The door flew open. Louis barely got a chance to look at Harry before he was dragged through the door by the front of his shirt and slammed against the wall. Harry kicked the door shut with foot and left Louis wide-eyed in the corner, holding his breath, vaguely aware of the dull pain in the back of his head.

“Harry?” 

Harry sat heavily on the foot of his bed, huge hands fisted in his hair. Louis wished he could see his face. He glanced around the room. It was completely sacked -- his clothes were strewn about, the bed sheets were balled up in a corner, and the alarm clock was broken and half-pushed under a nightstand. 

Harry always kept his things neat. Louis swallowed. It looked as though Harry’s hands were shaking. 

There was a long silence, until Harry’s quiet voice slipped through his fingers. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted painfully, hugging himself on the bed. Louis wanted to touch him, to hug him and kiss his face, to take Harry into his arms, but for the first time since Louis’s known him, he thought Harry might actually want the distance. “I think -- Lou, I think I’m going mad.”

“You’re not--”

“You can’t say that!” Harry exploded, pushing himself off the bed. “You don’t know that.” He shoved a hand roughly through his hair. “I...I can hardly remember things I used to like,” he said more quietly, as if he were embarrassed. “I hardly know myself anymore. I’m always with you or with the boys or with Paul or with a fan or friends or somebody--” Harry drew in a deep and terrible breath. “I feel like I can’t breathe. Like...I dunno. I never was good at explaining how I feel,” he laughed helplessly. Finally, he looked at Louis. His eyes were wet, lips chewed raw. “I’m scared,” he admitted finally, voice so low he was practically whispering. His dimples had disappeared into the angry red flush of his cheeks. Louis couldn’t help but think that there was something so free in his rage, so liberated and wild. His beautiful god of the sea. 

“I just...” Harry stared at him, but Louis got the sense that he was not talking to him so much as he was just trying to explain it to himself. “Sometimes we’re in a crowded place and I just...all of a sudden I feel like I’m suffocating. And I have to leave. Or else...I dunno.” Louis nodded, wildly, because he felt like that’s what he was supposed to do. “It’s like...sometimes I get this crazy fear that...if I don’t I’ll never be allowed to leave. I don’t know why. It’s nuts. It...Lou, none of this makes any sense does it?”

“Yeah, mate, yeah it does, keep...yeah, keep going.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “All of a sudden I just like...tense up if someone’s touching me, or I want to hide when someone calls my name, and just...” He laughed again -- an ugly, broken sound that Louis’s never heard before. “Run outside and scream and like...get out of my own skin. Shit, I don’t even know what I’d scream about. I don’t even know what I’m mad at, to be honest -- it’s just like -- this feeling builds and builds and it’s like, a dam breaking with...with nowhere to go.” He laughed again, embarrassed. “God, I sound like a proper madman right now.”

“No, you -- you don’t, Harry,” Louis tried, quietly, but to be honest he had no idea what to say. 

“And today--” Harry began, and Louis looked up, sharply. Something dark had come over Harry’s face, but Harry hid it before Louis could see. He crossed over to the window. The sun was practically gone now, and Harry was almost completely swallowed by darkness. Louis wanted to turn the light on, but he was afraid he wasn’t allowed. “Today I had something...like, what I’ve been looking for, I guess. Like...I dunno. I got away. I did it.” He sounded embarrassed, but he didn’t look it, muscles bunching under his shoulders, standing proud and tall, half-lit by the window. He was terrifying and brilliant to look at. “My body belonged to me again.” 

There was a long dreadful silence. Louis’s stomach knotted with shame. “I never feel like that anymore,” Harry said hoarsely. “Finally I got to get away and then...” That soft, horrible laugh again. “Then it was over before it started. I feel so fucking crazy. I don’t know what to do. Lou, tell me what to do.”

“Harry, I’m sorry--” Louis started weakly.

Harry’s head snapped to look at him over his shoulder, that beautiful terrible face creased by shadow, and something cold slid down to Louis’s belly. Harry’s stare pinned him to the wall.

“Do you know what the worst thing is?” Harry said softly. “The thing I can’t stop thinking about--” Harry’s voice was stretched so thin over his frayed, trembling nerves that Louis had to strain to hear him.

“What, Harry? What is it?” Louis asked. He felt like his voice sounded higher than usual, competing against the wild pattering of his heartbeat.

“I don’t think anyone respects me. Like, really respects me.” As soon as Harry said it, he laughed at himself. He turned to Louis, who was so thrown by all this that he couldn’t do anything but stare helplessly back.

“Do you respect me?” Harry asked quietly. Louis’s mouth went dry, and he said nothing.

“Does anyone respect me?” Harry continued sadly, and his cheeks folded like he was trying to smile, like he wanted it to sound like a joke. 

“Harry,” Louis croaked, tongue darting out anxiously to wet his lips. “Harry, I -- we -- we all love you--”

Harry huffed a laugh under his breath, and there was a muscle spasm that flashed across his face, like a mask slipping. “But that’s not quite the same thing, is it?” He was staring right into Louis’s eyes, eyebrows drawn, demanding an answer. And Louis, for the life of him, couldn’t think of one goddamn honest thing to say. 

Louis watched Harry as rose to his full height and closed his eyes, knuckles gone so white that it looked like the bone might burst through his skin. Suddenly, he picked up a nearby shoe and hurled it across the room with a scream that shook the floor and the wall and the whole earth, it seemed. He lifted his suitcase over his head and threw it into the wall, easily, like it weighed nothing. Louis watched, his ears filled with white noise, heart hammering against his chest until his body finally froze into something like numbness. 

Harry fought until his whole body was shaking, as though months and months of pent-up hormones and frustrations and furies were being released into his blood all at once. He screamed himself hoarse until he finally collapsed on the naked mattress of his bed. At some point, Louis slid to the floor. He peaked hesitantly through his fingers to see the wild rise and fall of Harry’s heaving chest, the spikes of his sweaty hair sticking up into the air, his hot, flushed cheeks and the bruised walls. He knew Harry was crying silently into the crook of his arm, but it was clear that Harry didn’t want him to know. If Louis had it his way, he would take his god of the sea by the face and kiss the salt water off his cheeks and love him and know him but some things were just Harry’s. Some things Harry had to leave just for himself. He had never seen Harry so angry or so lost or so fragile, but it was Harry’s anger and Harry’s fragility and if he wanted to trash a hotel room over something as small as an interrupted day at the beach, then he was allowed. Louis knew it was bigger things -- homesickness, heartsickness, feeling like he had no control over anything, feeling trapped and cornered and controlled. Everyone needs control over something, even small things. Everyone needs to rattle their cage every once in a while, even if they know deep down that it isn’t escape. 

But now Louis knew the worst of all of Harry’s confused, terrifying, half-formed feelings was the hollowness of being loved without being respected. Because for the most part, Harry was right: people didn’t love him, they loved a ghost, a phantom imprint that might have looked like Harry at one point but had been chafed and eroded and treaded on so many times that it was no longer recognizable. Harry had gotten so used to this phantom copy of a copy of himself that even he forgot it wasn’t really him. Today had been an ugly reminder, a window opening into a world that Harry had been neglecting.

Louis finally stood up with a long, shivering breath, feeling like he had just withstood the eye of a storm. He slipped out the door when Harry flopped onto this stomach, and snuck back to his room. He didn’t sleep a wink. 

\--

The next day, Harry is so sweet again. He’s gentle and tender and soft and lovely, all dimples and sparkling eyes and slippery-soft curls that slide through Louis’s fingers like water. He and Louis spend the whole day together, being stupid and playing pranks and fucking around. They throw food at Paul until he’s forced to chase them around a parking garage. They swap contact names on Zayn’s phone so he sends sappy messages meant for Perrie to Niall instead. They fill Liam’s shaving cream bottle with toothpaste. They fuck against the wall and on Harry’s naked mattress and in Liam’s shower, sending him screaming bloody murder loud enough to wake their entire hotel floor. 

But Louis can’t help but feel differently around Harry. He pays much closer attention to his moods. When they’re stuck in the car waiting to be ushered into their next hotel while fans beat on their windows, he watches Harry clench his fists in his lap, take a deep breath, and center himself. Louis sometimes puts his head in the crook of Harry’s neck and just breathes with him, but sometimes Harry needs the space. He’ll never say it out loud, because he’s afraid of accidentally hurting Louis’s feelings, but Louis can tell: he gets that dark, stormy look on his face, all drawn eyebrows and twitching neck veins and white knuckles. When he slips away to box or fucking meditate or get a new goddamn tattoo or whatever it is that Harry Styles does when he needs to let off steam, Louis tries his best to just step out of his orbit and give Harry the space he needs to spin on his own axis, on his own time, without any interference. Louis has his own vices -- namely drinking and dancing and wreaking havoc; he finds peace in chaos, ironically enough, and that’s allowed too. Different vices, different boys, different ways to unravel the knots of tension in their spines. When Harry’s ready to come back to Earth, he’s always calmer and happier and looser, nuzzling into Louis whenever he can, content to just watch and breathe and laugh with him.

\--

Louis has his tempers too. They’re less powerful but more frequent; tempers that sting instead of bruise, that leave angry scratches and teethmarks. Anything can set him off, but 9/10 times it comes back to Harry. It can be the most innocent things: he hugged a fan too long or spent too much time with other friends or a dumb rumor about Harry has Louis all riled up. At the end of the day, what Louis’s really mad about is how much he loves Harry, how overwhelmed he gets about how much he needs him, and how much he wishes he didn’t anybody. The only person he can think to take it out on is Harry himself. 

There’s a long car ride back to their hotel after a concert. Louis had been terribly rude to Harry all day, snapping at him or making snide comments or worse, ignoring him altogether. After what seemed like hours of trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, Harry just sort of gave up, letting Louis pull at the strings of his fraying temper without a word of protest, just numbly waiting for the moment when he could crawl into bed, and the moment after that when Louis would slip in next to him, all doe-eyed and apologetic and affectionate again. 

Harry waits as patiently as he can, closing his eyes and concentrating on the song playing in the car.

“What the fuck is this?” Louis comments, laughing, elbowing Harry. He looks at Zayn for encouragement, but he’s nearly passed out in the backseat. The car ambles along the highway, silent except for the music. Louis twitches, restlessly. “Harry, you picked this, didn’t you? Where do even find this weird, awful shit?”

“Dunno. I like it,” Harry says quietly, drumming his fingers on his knees. Louis snorts.

“Wasn’t a certain radio host who recommended it, was it?” Louis pushes. Harry isn’t looking at him, but he knows he’s got that awful, mischievous twinkle in his eye. 

“Can’t remember,” he intones. 

“Convenient,” Louis returns, raising his eyebrows.

“Give it a rest, Lou!” Zayn groans grumpily from the backseat under the rim of his hat, which is pulled low over his eyes. “Seriously, please just shut the fuck up.”

“Why is everyone always snapping at me?” Louis complains, throwing a pen cap at Zayn and glaring at Harry for good measure, though he’s still gazing out the window. 

“Because you’re an annoying shit, mate, that’s why,” Zayn snaps back, chucking back the pen cap. Louis bends it between his fingers, scowling at his lap.

“Dude, come on,” Harry mumbles, turning pleadingly to Zayn with a tiny shake of his head. Louis narrows his eyes at this, scoffing. He feels Harry’s big sad eyes boring into the side of his face and it only makes him angrier, flicking the pen to the front seat, accidentally hitting Niall in the neck, who startles awake with a yelp. 

“--what?” he says blearily. 

“Nothing, Niall, go back to sleep,” Louis snaps. 

There’s another long tense silence before Louis loses his patience again. 

“I’m fucking starving,” he says gruffly, kicking his feet. He stabs Harry’s ankle with the toe of his shoe. “Why’d you have to eat all the damn food in our dressing room?”

Harry ignores him, and it makes Louis so mad that he scares himself. 

“Harry,” he repeats. 

Harry clenches his fist in his lap, staring down at his knees. His eyes aren’t closed anymore. 

Louis makes a restless noise, kicking his feet even more fervently until Harry’s arm reaches out to grab his knee, squeezing tightly. 

“Don’t,” Harry says, lowly, and his eyes are darker than Louis’s ever seen them. “I’m serious.”

“What are you gonna do?” Louis taunts, throwing Harry’s hand off of him. “Whip your curls at me?”

Harry smiles coldly, huffing a ghost of a laugh, a dangerous sound that makes Louis freeze in his seat. When he meets Louis’s eyes it’s like he’s seeing everything, every vulnerable corner that Louis tries so hard to hide, every sweet soft inch of him that Louis’s hardened to protect himself.

When they finally arrive at the hotel, Harry goes to his room without a word to anyone. He goes through the usual motions of his night: showers, calls his mum, half-heartedly scrolls through twitter, texts Ed, decides he’s too exhausted to go out, and collapses onto his bed. He’s half-asleep when he hears the knock on his door. For an entire second, he considers not answering. 

Of course, he answers anyway. He opens the door, towel tied around his waist. Louis’s anxious face stares back at him. He’s rocking on his heels, wearing one of Harry’s t-shirts and long pajama bottoms. Harry just can’t find the energy in him to be upset with those sharp cheekbones and soft hair and blue eyes, staring up at him so prettily. 

He tilts his head to invite Louis inside, ushering him in with a hand on the small of his back. Louis kisses him when the door closes, soft and sweet and apologetic, staring up at him with big puppy-dog eyes when they part. 

“You can give me a slap if you want.”

Harry laughs, twirling a bit of Louis’s hair between his fingers. He rests his elbow against the door, boxing Louis into the cage of his arms, which Louis doesn’t seem to mind at all. He grabs onto Harry’s bicep, and they spent a long moment just looking at each other, fitting together against the door. 

“You drive me nuts,” Louis says simply, after a long silence. Harry stares him, eyes dark. His teeth scrape over his bottom lip. It seems like he might not be breathing. 

“Do I drive you nuts too?” 

Harry’s eyes harden. Without missing a beat, he says, “Yes.”

“You scare me, a little bit,” Louis says quietly. 

“Why?” Harry breathes.

“Because...I like you so much and I want to be around you all the time and I...I don’t have control over it. So I’ve been...I’ve been trying to like you less. Or make you like me less. I don’t know. I needed to...to calm down, I think.”

Harry steps back and looks down at his feet, and his hair falls into his eyes in such a sweet way that it almost makes Louis sick. 

“I’m sorry,” Louis continues.

Harry picks at some dirt on his pants.

“I’m really sorry.”

A knot works in Harry’s throat. 

“Will you please get mad at me? Yell at me? Scream? Hit me? Something,” Louis begs. “I’ve been awful. I deserve a good slap. Or a bit of a shout, at least.”

“Please don’t ask me to do that,” Harry says quietly. Louis draws in a sharp breath when Harry meets his eyes. 

“Alright.”

“I don’t like to be mad.”

“Well no one likes to be mad, do they?” Louis retorts, but Harry cuts him off with a serious look. A muscle jumps in Harry’s jaw.

“I really don’t like it. I hate...I hate how I feel. I would rather just be happy with you....and calm. When I feel mad it’s like...I can’t shake it for days. I’d rather not. Okay? I’d rather just...not.”

“I thought I could try to make it easier not to love you,” Louis says, starkly, leaving his wounds right there in the open. Harry blinks at Louis with big green guileless eyes that coax his heart right out of the cage Louis put it in. 

“Did it work?” Harry asks, looking down at their feet. 

“No.”

Harry frowns at the floor. Finally, he looks into Louis’s eyes again, in that deep, intense way that always makes Louis feel so vulnerable.

“Then don’t do it anymore. Don’t try,” he whispers gently. Louis can smell every part of him -- the minty gum he was chewing, his expensive cologne, his clean shirt, his sweaty hair. He breathes in and nods.

“Okay,” he says simply, staring up at him quietly, almost studiously. Harry’s eyes flicker over Louis’s face, and he slips a knee in between Louis’s thighs, which part for Harry like water. He cages Louis in again, leaning over him in that quiet, cocky way that always drives Louis so fucking crazy. 

“You drive me nuts,” Louis says again, but it’s just about all he can think of to say when Harry’s mouth is that close and his eyes are all dark and his big hands are playing with his hair, all light and comfortable like Louis is something that he owns.

Harry laughs, low and rough and rumbling next to his ear, still carding his fingers through Louis’s hair. “Are you gonna be good now?”

“Fuck you,” Louis returns, but he’s smiling, leaning up on his tip toes to nip at Harry’s jaw, but Harry leans away just in time, wagging his finger.

“Be good,” he breathes. “Let’s just be good to each other.”

“Okay,” Louis nods. Harry presses their foreheads together, leaving just enough skin touching and just enough space for themselves to breathe, to exist in their own skin as well as in each other’s. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know i've been AWOL for like, 5 months, and this fic probably seems completely out of the blue (it is) but...i'm back??? for now at least? this year has been pretty hellish thus far but good stuff's coming up hopefully and i think i'll be better this time around at juggling tumblr/fic with like, responsibility and real life haha. this fic was angsty as shit and therefore a terrible apology for being the worst (there wasn't even any real sex, like what am i doing here) but the intention was there, okay!! i've also returned to tumblr (@theteapirate) (for the summer at least!!). anyways, i've missed fandom terribly, and i hope you're all doing well!! this fic is different from the shit i usually write (weirdly long porn) so i'm interested to hear what y'all think!
> 
> title's from "these few presidents" by why?


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